


Don't let van patten pick reservations.

by LittleDancingRat



Category: American Psycho - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, Eye Trauma, Gore, Minor Violence, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28458108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDancingRat/pseuds/LittleDancingRat
Summary: Patrick Bateman enjoys an evening at Limelight with coworkers.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Don't let van patten pick reservations.

And as I'm walking up to our reserved table at Limelight, I'm met with the echoing voices of my peers. Already, it fills me with a nameless dread.

McDermott and Van Patten sit unreasonably tight, sides pressed together as they examine a menu laid out before them. Tim Price is situated across, lazily dangling a cigar between two fingers while eyeing the hardbody— who I've already noticed (blonde hair, big tits, tight ass) —handling drinks at the bar.

“Dude, what does that say?” Van Patten asks, exasperated.

“I can't. I can't,” McDermott says, some sort of dazed expression on his face as he tries desperately to avoid the question. “I don't know.”

It's now, as I'm seating myself beside Price, announcing my arrival— “ _men_.” —that I find out just what those two idiots are discussing.

McDermott stares hard at where Van Patten's finger lays on the cocktail menu, squinting to see the word written in big, bold, _cursive_ font. “I can't see it, the letters are too small,” McDermott says.

“No, they aren't,” Van Patten looks around the table, troubled, and when he catches eyes with me I simply shrug in return, to which David sighs, tapping emphatically against the menu again, focusing his attention back on Craig. “I can see them just fine.”

McDermott just seems more helpless at this revelation, mouth opening and closing, no sound coming out.

“What does it say?” Van Patten asks again.

It takes a moment to discern whether or not Van Patten can comprehend english either, or if this is all a cheap humiliation tactic. Really, I’m uninterested, and busy thinking about how tight a knot should be for it to hold up more than eighty pounds, since Cecilia Wagner brushed off my invitation earlier this evening.

“You already asked that,” McDermott whines.

“And you haven't answered,” Van Patten. “What does it say?”

“Jesus christ, the man has a bottle of kegs for a brain. You're wasting your time,” Price groans. His rising irritation proves that this conversation has been going on for far too long, quickly becoming a drag.

Finally, I peer over to see just what the problem is — and I can't seem to find one.

Van Patten's finger rests underneath an order below the entrees column: _Whiskey Sour._

“What does it say?” Van Patten repeats, for what is most likely the fifteenth time this evening. And if it turns into sixteen, I'm jamming the sharp end of my knife directly into David’s thigh beneath our place settings. Chances are, the prick would be too busy throwing a pissy fit over McDermott's incompetency to notice his own blood coating these disgusting, floral patterned seat cushions.

“Venison steak, side of caviar,” McDermott proclaims and throws his hands up, not even looking at the lettering, instead watching what seems to be Taylor Preston coaxing some blonde alkie into the bathroom.

“You guessed,” Price says pointedly, no doubt ready to get up and leave, in which case, I’ll be coming with.

Van Patten shakes his head, “no, no. You didn’t look, you’re not looking, dude, read it. What does it say?”

Sixteenth time, and my knuckles turn white around the wooden handle of my steak knife.

“I can’t see it.”

“You can. You can see it, what does it say?”

Seventeenth.

“I’m claiming blind.”

Van Patten slaps the table, “YOU CAN’T CLAIM BLIND!” He shouts, red in the face, clearly just as frustrated as the rest of us. It’s becoming harder and harder to tell whether or not McDermott _or_ Van Patten’s joking. “Can he claim blind?” to me, then before I answer, to Craig, “No, you can’t. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“That’s not how vision works, dumbass,” Price comments.

“Thirteen.”

Van Patten slaps the table again. “ _That’s not an answer!_ I’m not even counting that,” he huffs.

“Would you read the fucking thing and get this conversation over with?” Price spits, tapping impatiently against the table. “I’d like to eventually, you know, _order._ ”

It’s a wonder I haven’t skinned David sooner, his freckled flesh would make a neat design as a lampshade, and rendezvous such as these would be much more enjoyable without an extra mouth flapping nonsensical bullshit.

Again, desperate. “ _What does it say?_ ” Van Patten is begging, _wanting_ to believe it’s a lame, pointless joke that’s been dragged out for too long. He should know better than that by now.

They’re idiots. Both of them. “Shut up,” I mutter, but nobody seems to hear me.

“The man claimed blind,” Price reminds us.

Preston has now coerced the blonde bimbo into leaving Limelight with him, since she clearly didn’t want anything to do with the restroom, and she’s starting to put up a fuss, makeup smudged, swaying lousily.

McDermott shrugs. “It’s not coming to me.”

“What does it say?”

Nineteenth.

“Drinks? Anyone, drinks? Long Island might make this evening a little more fucking entertaining.” Price.

“What does it say?”

“I could go for a Long Island,” McDermott, quietly.

“What does it say?”

Only now, do I realize Tim has been talking to a waitress for the past five minutes - but it’s not _our_ waitress. Ours is past the bar, tending another table, which tacks on to my growing anxiety. “Alabama Slammers all around, sweetheart.”

“Is that Smith?” McDermott.

“Smitty?” Price.

“No, that’s Preston,” I correct.

“How is _that_ Preston?” McDermott’s getting testy.

“What does it say? — you’re getting distracted!”

“God, don’t get the fucking Long Island, it’s tacky. Cheap. Totally cheap.”

“What does it say _?_ ”

 _Twenty-three_.

“Who’s he with?”

“Some alkie.”

“Yeesh.”

“ _What does it-_ ”

I thrust my fist against our table with a yell, silverware and drinks clattering together; before anyone can react, a champagne glass smashes against David’s head cutting him off mid-sentence, liquid drenching his expensive Paisley Armani suit, pieces exploding different directions and landing in obscure places, blood gushing from the zillion cuts in his face like a waterfall. There’s shards stuck in his head, his cheek, stabbed through and ruining once perfect skin. He twitches, eyelid struggling to close over jagged pieces, a single blue eye rolling back, then staring dead-on into the black pin pricks of my own, so void of life — my hand bleeds, what’s left of my drink drenching the tablecloth, running down the length of my forearm.

Though I’m unnerved. Something is wrong.

The way David has no reaction, how Craig continues to flounder for a subject change. Not a single word is uttered, no yelps, no cries of pain: I wonder if I ever heard the sound of a glass being brutally crushed over the head of an unsuspecting drunk, something tells me 'no, no I don't remember hearing it.' Both of my peers just… look at me. Look at my blood covered hand, my blank expression, the red stains in my suit... confused? —

But Price was the one who slammed his fist.

And I’m back in my booth, observing Preston exit the club with Cecilia Wagner looking totally out of it. Nobody stops them, and while Price reams our colleagues, I recall Matt Schmidt saying Preston had a cousin named Cecilia, which still proves to be useless information even now.

Heads turn towards our table, proving this is real, and if it’s not me, then _somebody_ is yelling. So _that’s_ comforting.

After what feels like hours of Price reaming our colleagues, Tim finally sits down, shaking his head. Craig and David sulk glumly after being scolded, not as talkative. Good.

His outburst seems to have worked wonders, easing the growing ache in my temples, because there’s peace for another minute or two — before Van Patten pokes McDermott’s side, then the menu, mumbling something I barely catch ( _Twenty-five)_ , and as always, that’s usually when hell breaks loose.

“I can't, I told you, I don't know,” McDermott professes dolefully, rubbing at his nose which looks to have reached the point of bleeding if the raw skin has any indication. “I can't fucking read it.”

Patience has worn thin a long time ago on Price; he now wears a permanent scowl. “So you ad _mit_ it then? You finally admit? Are we done here?”

Van Patten’s stunned, stuck for a response.

“I'm not admitting!” McDermott protests. Then, he's fidgeting with his glass of what is undoubtedly liquor, mumbling, “I told you we shouldn't have come here, they watered down my drink. Tastes like tap, totally cheap.” Craig McDermott, always with the topic change.

“You really can't read it?” Van Patten asks dubiously.

“Oh sure, _that's_ why you wanted Fez.” Price takes a drag from his cigar tiredly, expelling smoke from his lungs with an utterly exhausted huff. “Not because you couldn’t even read the side of a building if you tried.”

“You really can't read it?” Van Patten asks again, and if Craig doesn’t answer, _I’m_ going to for him.

“I can't fucking read it!” McDermott shoots back, flustered, devastated, at a complete loss. “I can't see the god damn letters, I don't know what they are, I can't.” The pain in McDermott's confession is so vivid, if I wasn't so pissed off, I might have pretended this conversation never happened, for his sake and my own sanity. “I can't read cursive.”

Silence falls over our table. A few painful beats pass. In the time it takes our waitress to bring another round of drinks to our table, none of us have uttered a single word. Then she leaves.

“Holy shit,” Van Patten utters, for some reason upset.

“Totally cheap,” Price is nodding affirmatively, swishing his beer. “Watered down my sherbet.”

“That's what I've heard,” I confirm, spacey, disoriented. I need a Valium. I need to see what the inside of Craig’s skull looks like.

Conversation halts once again for one relaxing second. This time less tense, and it is much appreciated. It's peaceful, even.

Until Craig, clearly uncomfortable and fidgeting, decides to speak again. Motherfucker.

“Why is it such a big deal?” McDermott whines distressed, turning to Van Patten.

It’s _my_ hand that strikes wood this time- I could break it if I wanted –an actual growl leaving my chest, and if looks could unsheathe the bowknife I have tucked in my suit jacket and skewer David’s hand to the table while simultaneously slitting open McDermott’s chest with a fork, then— _well_.

Leaning forward, my fist clenching like I'm going to strike out, and there’s a deep satisfaction in the way Craig noticeably flinches, shrinking back. “We’re calling the next fucking waitress that walks by and getting the _fucking_ check.”

Sweat forms on my brow; I quickly wipe it away, leaning back in my chair. I’m not exactly content with how this evening’s gone, but I’m relying on Price– the only _sane_ person here –to get it moving along. Preferably with some coke—and soon.

After my outburst ( _on top_ of Tim’s), the table stays in silence, basking in an awkward air.

Price smokes lazily, I ball up my fists trying to calm down, Van Patten and McDermott remain stock still like school children who got in trouble.

Then finally, one of them moves.

It’s Van Patten, quietly patting McDermott on the shoulder.

“S’alright man. It’s a useless skill anyway…”

It’s decided: I’m going to _skin_ them both.

“...And we never got our slammers,” Price murmurs. “Next time, _I_ get to choose the fucking reservations.”

**Author's Note:**

> Moral of the Story: Craig has dyslexia.
> 
> edits made; 1/31/21


End file.
